Scotch and Sympathy
by V. Laike
Summary: This was what he needed:  to be some anonymous Angelino who could drink his troubles into oblivion  . . . Post In Security.


Disclaimer: The usual. They're not mine. They never have been mine. They never will be mine. They belong to Heuton, Falacci, and Co.

Thanks, as always, to my beta Izhilzha.

SCOTCH and SYMPATHY

by

V. Laike

The stink of stale beer and old cigarette smoke hung in the air of the dark, dingy bar, and the garish neon lights outside cast odd shadows on the people scattered around the room. An old rock song pulsed from the jukebox in the corner: "You Give Love a Bad Name." How ironic. Don Eppes headed straight to the bar, ignoring the look of admiration he received from the redhead seated on a barstool at the end. This was what he needed: to be some anonymous Angelino who could drink his troubles into oblivion without risking the reputation of his family or his team.

"Scotch, straight up. Make it a double."

The bartender slid a napkin and glass in front of him. As the tender filled the glass with the amber liquid, Don's mind wandered back over his day. After the conversation in his SUV, he had driven back to the office, where he threw himself into the paperwork. David and Colby had had the good sense to leave him to it, and when Liz had handed him her report at the end of the day, a "Thank you" on his part had been the extent of the conversation. His hand had brushed hers as he accepted the file, but she'd pulled away and walked off without a backward glance.

Don downed a generous slug of his drink and savored the burn it traced down his throat. The paperwork hadn't dulled the pain; maybe the Scotch would.

He was crazy about her. He'd go nuts if anything ever happened to her. She was a beautiful woman with amazing eyes and a smile to light up a room, and she was a good agent. But he'd done some things he wasn't proud of, and it would hurt her more to know about his past than not. He couldn't do that to her. And if he didn't trust her, she didn't trust him, either. Maybe he didn't trust himself. He knew she wouldn't understand that he was trying to protect her. She didn't know him. She wouldn't understand any of it.

So she became another notch on his bedpost—damn, he hated that cliché—another part of his past to be kept at arm's length.

He slung back the rest of the Scotch and motioned the bartender for another.

Maybe he should have told her about the nights out with Leah. Then they could have broken up with full disclosure instead of playing hide-and-seek with sealed files. But he couldn't have told her about Leah, even if he'd thought she would understand. Leah was a protected witness, and Don was the only one outside of Wit Sec who knew who and where she was. Some things came with this job that he just couldn't share with anyone, regardless of relationships and the history involved.

And now Leah was dead.

Another shot of whiskey burned its way down his throat.

Damn, he missed Terry. Sure, they had a history, but in spite of that, they'd been friends. She knew him, she understood him, and she still cared about him. He wondered if she and her ex-husband had managed to work things out.

Then there was Robin. Beautiful, easygoing, straight-talking Robin. Robin, with her soft, dark hair and her slow, sly smile and her sharp wit. There was no game playing with Robin; she called it like she saw it. Even Charlie had thought she was good for Don. Robin's position as an AUSA kept her close enough to the job to understand it, but not so close that they brought the same problems home at the end of the day. And she cared. She cared so much that she broke up with him so she wouldn't have to watch him compromise himself (_self-destruct_ had been the actual word) on the job. How the hell she'd found out about the Buck Winters interrogation, Don had no idea.

"Buy me a drink?"

Don looked at the woman now seated next to him. Her long red hair fell over her shoulders and down her back, and her blue eyes glinted with well-practiced seduction. She wore a little too much make-up on her fair skin, but the cut of her snug green blouse flattered her curves more than was probably legal, and the neckline revealed enough cleavage to make a man want to explore what hid behind the next button.

"Sure, why not." Don signaled the bartender to refill the woman's glass. Maybe this was what he wanted tonight, to be an anonymous Angelino who gets picked up in a dive by some other anonymous Angelino for a night of nameless sex. A straight business transaction, because caring about your partner just hurt too damn much.

The woman took a sip of her wine spritzer. "My name's Frannie. What's yours, Sweet Cheeks?"

Don gave the woman a sideways glance. Had she just called him what he thought she'd just called him?

Frannie laughed a soft, throaty laugh. She'd obviously had a long evening working the bar. "You wear those jeans so well. How can I help but notice?" She eyed him up and down again, her gaze lingering on the jeans in question.

Don managed a tired smile and took another swallow of Scotch. "I'm glad you approve."

She ran a hand down his arm and leaned in, speaking softly. "You look like a man who could use some cheering up. You want to talk about it?"

Don stared at the liquor in his glass, swirling it around slowly and watching the ripples as they spun around the sides of the round glass. The perimeter. Circumference. Circumference equals _pi r_ squared. Or something like that. It didn't sound right. Didn't matter. Charlie would know. What kind of an equation could Charlie come up with to determine the quickest route to dulling the pain of a broken heart? 'Cause Don sure hadn't figured that one out yet. "I should warn you, Frannie, I'm damaged goods."

Frannie traced a finger down Don's cheek. The tickle of her touch left a tingling in its wake and stirred something more. "Oh, honey, repairing damaged goods is my specialty."

Don didn't look at her, but neither did he brush her hand away. The gentle caress felt good, too good. "Damaged _federal_ goods."

"Oh." Frannie pulled her hand away, but her body remained close, her breasts gently brushing against his arm. He could smell her cheap, sickly sweet floral perfume and the wine on her breath. She knew she was in no danger of arrest. Don knew his body language screamed depression and defeat, not potential sting. "Well, then, I won't charge you. No business transaction, nothing to be arrested for."

He caught her eye and cocked an eyebrow.

She smiled. "I know what you're thinking. How can I make a living if I give away the merchandise?" She gave a half-shrug. "Consider it my contribution to the Policeman's Benevolent Association."

Don huffed a half-hearted chuckle, then belted down the rest of his Scotch and waved to the bartender.

"She must have hurt you real bad," Frannie said as the bartender refilled Don's glass.

"Yeah? Why do you say that?"

"Well for one thing, when I wear this blouse, men usually can't keep their hands off me."

"It's a very attractive blouse," Don said without looking at her.

"And for another, only guys with job troubles or girl troubles put away Louie's swill the way you are tonight."

Don said nothing.

"So why don't you tell Frannie all about it. Sometimes it helps to talk to a stranger, you know?"

"My place or yours?" Don asked.

"Wherever you want."

Don found himself tempted. Los Angeles was a big city. He was miles away from his usual haunts. He was sure her body would fit nicely with his in a bed, and he couldn't imagine being more ashamed of himself than he felt right at this moment. Another couple of drinks, and he'd need someone to drive him home anyway. He slung back another mouthful of liquor.

"Don?"

Don looked up to see a beautiful brunette approaching him. Immediately he knew he'd been wrong; he could feel more ashamed of himself. He wished she'd never seen him like this, but it was too late now.

Frannie shifted her gaze from the newcomer to Don and back. She must have seen the recognition in Don's expression and known that there would be no competition. "She's pretty," Frannie told him. "Good luck."

Don returned his gaze to the liquor in front of him as the alluring woman with the dark eyes slid onto the stool Frannie had vacated. "Come home with me," she said.

Things might have been different for Don and this woman once. There had been a spark between them, and there remained a mutual admiration. They enjoyed each other's company, and they shared a common love of at least one thing in life.

"My place or yours?"

"I was thinking more like your brother's."

Charlie appeared at Amita's side. "C'mon, bro. Let us take you home."

Don studied Charlie a moment. He looked not so much disappointed as concerned—worried and maybe even a little sad. Don weighed his own reaction to being saved from himself by his little brother. "How did you find me?"

"I have some friends who happen to be Feds," Charlie said. "They're pretty good at things like tracking down fugitives and finding missing persons."

Don quirked a sardonic smile. "What, no math?" He drained his glass and reached for his wallet.

"I'll get that," Charlie said and pulled out his own wallet. "Give me your keys and let Amita take you to your car. She'll drive mine back to the house."

Don knew he'd soon be in no condition to operate a vehicle anyway, so he handed over his car keys without comment. The less said about his current state of mind, the better.

"This isn't the best neighborhood in town, you know," Don told his brother's girlfriend as they walked toward the door. He felt warm inside, and he wasn't at all sure it was from the Scotch.

"I know," she said as she slipped an arm around him. Don felt steady on his feet, but he slid an arm around her anyway. "But my boyfriend's brother is a Fed. I think we can make it to the parking lot."

Charlie caught up to them as they stepped out into the night air. He placed a hand on his older brother's shoulder as they made their way to the parking lot. There Don saw the blue Prius parked next to his SUV. Charlie handed Amita his keys, they kissed quickly, and she climbed into the hybrid as Charlie unlocked the passenger door to Don's vehicle. Don got in and leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes as he listened to his brother take the wheel and felt the car pull into traffic.

"We'll get you home, and you can tell me why you felt the need to go slumming tonight." Don remained silent. "Or not."

Don's eyes remained closed. The Scotch was starting to do its work, numbing thoughts of murdered witnesses and orphaned teens and angry lovers. The only thing that mattered now was people he knew he could trust. Family.

"Thanks, buddy," he said with a sigh.

"For what, bro?"

"Just . . . thanks."

_finis_


End file.
